This Rodinesque

What is yet to come into
its sweetness
still green on the stem.

Between two ahems,
this attempt
at a hymn.

Our typically skeptical
when faced with too much neatness.

Our feel for a whole
by its missing fragments.

These scars and hickies
spit and polish.

After the fisticuffs
we’ve only the mistiest memory of,
this gaptoothed grin.

A magnum opus
guessed together
from the notebooks.

Our cosmos, all these
aeons into things,
still forming.

This body we bury
a spore of glory
briefly dormant.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 38 Number 10, on page 28
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